


Paint

by mem0



Series: Klelijah Translations [3]
Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, M/M, Romance, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 17:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20119129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mem0/pseuds/mem0
Summary: Klaus has a new painting in mind, and Klaus needs a canvas.Translation from the Russian (перевод с русского).





	Paint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaejandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaejandra/gifts).
  * A translation of [Краска](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549911) by [jaejandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaejandra/pseuds/jaejandra). 

“You’ve gone fucking crazy,” Elijah whispers breathlessly, raising his head.

“Yeah, fucking crazy, so what,” Klaus responds pensively, drawing the next line across the perfect body, smearing and diffusing the paint with his fingers, finally ending with a dot.

After a second he remembers himself, falls out of the refrain of _canvas-body-paint, _looks at Elijah and at the line of his neck, only lightly brushed with a wild indigo. Klaus was trying to find a way to approach the neck, but he didn’t have the strength, or most importantly – the breath, or space at hand.

“If only someone else could hear how Elijah Mikaelson expresses himself,” Klaus says mockingly, and takes a long-awaited break for a gulp of Pinot Noir.

He wants to continue his work, but wants to put it aside just as passionately.

“If only someone else could see what you’re doing with me, while – I don’t even know how to put it best – I’m in dishabille, in your power à huis clos.”

Klaus realizes that he can’t turn around and look at the worst fucking canvas of his entire life, spread across the dining table brought into the room for the occasion.

“Yes, yes, trying to hide the vulgarity with French,” he responds. “By the way, dear brother, _dishabille, _like _negligee, _is only used for ladies. Don’t you find your slip of the tongue a bit strange?”

“At least let me take a drink,” Elijah requests. “And yes, both those words imply light clothing. Not the near complete absence of it. But that’s not the point.”

“How’s that,” Klaus delays, but suddenly takes in the first part of Elijah’s words. “Stop. Don’t move. You remember that you’re not supposed to move, right?”

“I’ll drink lying down. Don’t panic.”

Klaus once again sees the finished painting, the ideal canvas, a lilac haze envelops him, and he turns to his easel and his brother, not expecting the catch, having completely forgotten that…

That the easel is that very brother. That his skin is the most delicate, beautiful canvas. It would be good to have something to suppress his arousal, so Klaus splashes wine into a second glass and hands it to Elijah. The other drinks, spilling, and a fine trickle crawls barely audibly downwards, to the divine indigo on his divine neck.

Klaus shudders and wants to wipe away the wine with his fingers, before it smears the precise picture, but touch his brother? In this condition? No, no, it’s not his brother, but a canvas.

“And I myself don’t understand why I agreed to this escapade,” Elijah says. “I probably respect you too much as an artist, but, listen, I’d never think of writing books on you. Niklaus?”

Klaus no longer cares about his comments: he drags his brush, stained with expensive food dye, to the left, right, up, down, without trying to understand or rationalize his motions. He’s in a different world, not here and now, and after all, Elijah allowed it, Elijah gave himself up to it.

“Well if you’d taken a pretty girl, that I’d understand.”

Klaus draws upwards across his cheek in one strong motion.

“Why did you talk me into this?”

Klaus comes to the lips and crosses them, halts at the upper one, smears the paint, then moves on again, stubbornly, until the paint runs out, until…

“And I didn’t think that it’d be like… this. Thank you for leaving my underwear, at least. Still, admit it, it feels like something crazy.”

Klaus dips his brush in a sunny ochre, then instantaneously switches for a warm violet, keeping the fuchsia on the ready. He covers all the things he cannot touch in fine patterns of drawings.

“Niklaus, what kind of canvas could I possibly be?”

Sweat runs across his forehead. Klaus takes a gulp out of his glass, uses his thumb to rub a flower into the right cheek of his precious canvas, sighs, takes another drink and answers:

“A ruined one.”

“What?” Elijah almost jumps up.

“You heard me.” Sweat fills his eyes. It’s unbearably hot in the room, but Klaus has almost finished his work, he just needs a few more strokes. “It can talk, and worse, it has a black patch in the middle, and it complained a lot and got embarrassed, and even worse…”

Klaus heads off to the window and leans his forehead against the glass.

“It barely sat still while I was covering its surface. And it wouldn’t dry. And…”

“A black patch, then.”

Klaus knows that tone. Over the course of the last ten centuries it has led to fights, drinking bouts, madness, repeat. That his work is unfinished absolutely enrages him, but how can you prove to this swine that the inner surface of the thigh is also part of the canvas? And that if he would let you draw there, then…

“I don’t care if it’s dried, honestly.”

The rustle of silk against skin breaks the silence. There’s no sound of it sticking, which means it dried.

It takes around twenty seconds for Klaus to understand, and he stares persistently out of the window in order not to make something out in its reflection.

“Niklaus?” His brother calls demandingly. “The canvas is no longer defective. Onwards.”

Klaus accidentally breaks the glass in his fingers, and is very frightened to turn around.

“Come on, Nik,” Elijah calls. “What side should I lie on for you?”

And Klaus is abruptly thrown from the clouds to the earth. All day he’s been going mad, like a drunk, over Elijah allowing him to draw on him, struck more strongly by inspiration than wine. He started again and again from the ankles and erased everything thirty times, but now all the magic has disappeared. He lost, like always.

Truthfully, it’s impossible to win in this game.

He mechanically wipes off his hands on a rag, and, lowering his gaze, goes to the door.

“Niklaus, wait. It’s over. I’m ready, please, look at your canvas.”

“It’s useless,” Klaus answers, staring at the floor. “My inspiration is gone.”

“Oh really?” Elijah asks, lowering his legs from the table. “Your inspiration? Or arousal?”

Klaus is so shocked that he even looks up. The perfect canvas is perfectly perfect, and it’s alive, it’s his brother, and truth be told, even without anything drawn on him he’s still a painting, and Klaus was only trying to hide that with layers of his paints.

“Niklaus?” Elijah doesn’t shy away from him at all, quite the contrary, he comes right up to Klaus, touches his shoulder. “Niklaus?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Elijah,” Klaus hisses, offended, slurring, as usual, the harshness of the “j” in that delicious name. “If you don’t…”

Elijah’s hand, however, takes him by the waist for some reason and crawls under his thin sweater.

“What are you doing?”

“Me?” The ideal canvas raises an eyebrow. “It seems I am planning to kiss you.” Klaus jerks, but the hand holds him firmly, and Klaus takes leave of his senses once more. “You know, dear brother, I’m sick of this old game of suicide checkers. I’m so sick of it. Because when things between us get to the point of declaring victors, it turns into the regular version of the game. So, forgive me, but today I’m going to stop.”

Klaus doesn’t know what to say. His nose is only a hair’s breadth away from touching the dark blue dot on his brother’s lips and he’s completely incapable of standing straight. When he’s unsettled he becomes unsettled physically as well. But here that’s not the case: here the ideal canvas is speaking some nonsense about board games while his hand burns a hole in the small of Klaus’s back.

“Don’t you agree about the suicide checkers? Don’t you agree that I allowed you to kill my women, hoping for a victory? Don’t you agree that you completely surrendered yourself to me, that I held your heart in my hands? You know, Niklaus, I want to be inside you in a bit of a different way.”

“You’re shameless!” Klaus exclaims. The embrace closes around him and Elijah kisses him, softly and insistently, just like Klaus likes it, just like Klaus has dreamed for so long.

They make it to the table, knocking over a pair of jars, and Klaus’s hands feel for everything he touched with his brush, and he feels terribly like a young girl, because he, and no one else, is an artistic type of personality, all those waves of inspiration and deafening emotions.

He is embarrassed that he has to sit above Elijah, is embarrassed by the moans, his and Elijah’s, and that he has to take off his sweater.

Elijah draws his own patterns on him – and only with the help of his mouth, and Klaus would have called for help long ago, except it’s wonderful, it’s ten times better than any drawing, and he gives in to his emotions, he gives in to his feelings, trying to kiss and lick in response, but Elijah just hushes him and says:

“You’ll ruin the picture.”

Everything happens quite quickly, because his moans are lost in the other man’s lips, his hands in the other’s hands, and nothing particular is needed to bring him to orgasm. Klaus gives in to the charity of the victor, and while Elijah enters him and begins to move shamelessly, he doesn’t care at all who won in suicide checkers and who lost the regular version.

Afterwards they lie with their foreheads pressed together, and Klaus finally doesn’t have to joke and try to hide his embarrassment.

“Will you finish the picture?” Elijah asks, tiredly dragging his brother into his embrace.

Klaus nods, meaning: I already finished, and Elijah, he thinks, understands without words.


End file.
